The Men from U.N.C.L.E. - The Olympics Affair
by Ship's Cat
Summary: The January Challenge - put the Mag 7 characters into a television show or movie, but not as a crossover. The seven men of the Four Corners office of UNCLE have their work cut out for them at the Olympics in Salt Lake!
1. Default Chapter

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


THE MEN FROM U.N.C.L.E.   
in   
"The Olympics Affair" 

The Saloon was closed. But that didn't stop the debonair man from picking his way through the debris filled alleyway to a locked side door. With a barely concealed sign of disgust he scraped some unknown substance off the bottom of his shoe before placing his hand on a portion of the gritty dirty back window. An infrared camera read his palm print through the greasy glass pane. The back door opened with a silent click and the man had just enough time to slip through before it closed behind him. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hand fastidiously. 

He slipped through the small kitchen to a back pantry and moving a can of jalapeno peppers activated the elevator. It was only a short ride, but the cans and jars always rattled alarmingly. 

The doors opened onto a brightly lit steel corridor. 

"Good Morning Mr. Standish." A dark Spanish woman smiled as she pinned his badge to his immaculate suit lapel. "Mr. Larabee and the rest are waiting for you...as usual." She added with a smile. 

"Thank you Miss Recillos." Ezra Standish, Enforcement and Intelligence agent for the Four Corners office of The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement replied. 

It was only a short walk to the main conference room which also was the only room outside of the equipment bay that was big enough to hold the seven men that ran the Four Corners office of U.N.C.L.E. 

Section Chief Chris Larabee glared at his late agent. Seated around the standard round briefing table were the two section two agents, Buck Wilmington and Vin Tanner. Standish was officially a Section 3 agent, dealing in Enforcement and Intelligence. Young JD Dunne was their Section 4 - in charge of Intelligence and Communications. Even now he was hunched over a communicator pen coaxing it into doing more things than it was originally built for. Buck Wilmington was hanging over the kid, trying to give him advice. 

Sections 5 and 6 were ably bodied by Nathan Jackson and Josiah Sanchez, taking care of security, medical needs and anything else that needed doing. 

"Here son." Josiah grinned and handed over a mug of coffee. "Nathan made it." The last remark was important, because if Vin made the coffee a caffeine overdose was assured. 

Standish curled his lip up at the mug handed him. It was a garish pink with scantily clad females posed around it and the handle was that of a naked woman curved enticingly. Ezra carefully avoided the handle. 

"You last in, get the worst mug." Tanner grinned over the rim of his Denver Broncos mug. 

Larabee took a satisfied sip of the hot brew from his own mug aptly emblazoned "The Boss". Nobody touched Larabee's mug. 

Chris Larabee was one of UNCLE's top Enforcement agents. However, as the mandatory age of retirement for field agents was 40 he was given the choice of becoming a section chief or having the usual UNCLE retirement - a permanent debriefing. Much had happened to Larabee in his years as an agent and he was reluctant to give up those memories - good and bad. 

Regional Chief for the Southwest, Judge Travis, had wisely put Larabee into a small section, though vital. While technically no longer an Enforcement agent, Larabee's command was small enough for him to do field work, if needed. He was given the liberty of hand-picking his team. 

Buck Wilmington had been Chris' partner for many years, an arrangement they were comfortable with. Vin Tanner had been a fairly new UNCLE recruit, a former army man and Texas Ranger. 

JD Dunne was an UNCLE brat, his computer abilities and talents had been spotted while in High School and was a result of short-lived, but extremely successful "recruit them while young" policy. Dunne had gone to college on an UNCLE funded scholarship and had been added to the team straight from training. 

Nathan Jackson was rescued from the cellar of the San Francisco office where he'd been moldering away buried in Section 8 - officially research and development, but known as Deception and Camouflage in the Command. 

Josiah Sanchez had been the cover for a Los Angeles based UNCLE office that had been disguised as a local house of worship "The Undying Never-ending Care and Love of Eliahu". Southern California was rife with such institutions and he would have remained there for years preaching gentle sermons of brotherly love and doing profiling on the side for UNCLE if an untimely earthquake hadn't destroyed the building and scattered his flock to other religious venues. 

The latest member of the team, both in joining and at the meeting this day was Ezra Standish. He was a good field agent, but more valuable in Section 3, Enforcement and Intelligence. He was a good mimic, spoke most European languages with the skill of a native and was a hard man to get to know. 

Larabee tossed a file onto the table and gave it a push to move it around to his late agent. The table idly spun and landed the file directly in front of Standish. 

Ezra took what could have been a casual sip of coffee before flipping open the file. 

"The Olympics?" 

"Yep." Buck Wilmington grinned as he took a healthy swallow from his Garfield mug. "You know Salt Lake City?" 

"The whole Western Division has been put on alert status, since we don't have any outstanding cases we'll be put in with some of the athletes." Larabee explained. 

"But Mr. Larabee, whom among us has ever done bobsledding?" Standish looked distressed. 

"We aren't there to win, Ez" Vin said grinning. "Bobsled competitions are on the first days. We lose gracefully and then spend the rest of our time looking for bad guys." 

Larabee glared at Vin. Just who was doing the briefing? 

"Sorry cowboy." Vin didn't look too contrite. 

Larabee continued, not quite losing his glare. "Vin, JD, Nathan and Buck will be in the bobsled. I'll be coaching and Josiah will be equipment manager. I have something special in mind for Ezra." The glare turned into a grin which was just as scary. 

"Your shady past has come to rest Standish." Larabee continued, stretching leisurely and enjoying the rare flit of unease that passed over the man's face. 

"Which part of mah shady past are you referrin' to Mr. Larabee?" Ezra's mind was already racing quickly over past deeds and misdeeds that might be construed as shady in their leader's mind. He took a good swallow of coffee to cover any confusion or dismay he might have let slip. 

Larabee grinned even wider. Standish's southern accent always got a little more pronounced when he was off balance, especially with his fellow agents. 

"Why the silver medal in biathlon in the European Cup about six years ago. I believe you were skiing for Spain at the time under the name of Emilio Desole?" 

"Hardly Olympic standard Mr. Larabee, and I haven't been on skis since..." 

"Last month." Vin added helpfully. "You went to Switzerland." 

"To see mah mother..." Standish squirmed a bit and took another swallow of the coffee which seemed a bit bitter. 

"Your Mom was in South America." JD added helpfully. "Your latest letter came from there." 

"We gotcha son." Josiah's rumbling laugh filled the room. 

"Hell Ez, we are spies. It is what we do best." Vin added. 

"Well why can't y'all find some Thrush agents or mad scientists to follow instead of me!" Standish growled and drained his coffee cup. "Good God! What is in the bottom of mah cup?" 

Buck grinned and nudged Vin. "If they was real, Ez, I say about a 40 D..." 

** Part II **   
**Agent Gail Gardner**   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. The Olympics Affair Part II

  


  


**THE OLYMPICS AFFAIR**   
**PART II**

_I** would like to thank my colleague, Kari Saarela, for his input on biathlon. Kari placed 7th in the Olympics in 1978 in that event. Also greetings to Anne and her husband Timo, who I promised to add to one of my stories. All things said about Finns could possibly be true. gg**_**__**

It was a circus, the international sporting event, but a circus nonetheless. The seven UNCLE agents were no more conspicuous than the colorful collection of athletes, the even more colorful tourists and the bad guys, whoever they were disguised as. 

Even the warble of the communicator pens caused no more than a passing interest. Larabee was obviously talking to Travis, he was listening carefully. 

A large hulking fellow in Finland's colors nudged JD. "What kind of cell phone is that?" 

"Eriksson." JD said blandly. 

"Perrrrrkele Swedes." The man apparently swore. "Well as long as they don't beat us in ice hockey. He grinned showing a veteran ice hockey visage of several replaced teeth. 

"I'm sure Nokia has one of those coming out next month." JD soothed him. "And good luck on the ice hockey." 

"You ski jumper?" The Finn eyed the young man critically. He didn't look anorectic or lightweight enough to be one of those people who like to jump off of seven story structures. 

"Nah, bobsled." 

The Finn grinned wider, now that the fellow athlete wasn't a direct theat to his country. "You come for dinner on Friday. We having a big feast. Great Finnish food. Bring your team." 

"Sure thanks!" JD said warmly. 

"Wooeee kid, Scandhoovian girls here we come."Buck did a victory dance. 

"Bad guys, Buck." Chris said dryly snapping his communicator pen closed. "We are here to look for bad guys." His steely gaze swept over his team drawing their wandering attention from the sights and sounds of the Olympic Village. "Right?" He got reluctant nods from his team. "Travis tells me that Bob the Hat and his gang of thugs are here. Our job is to let them know we are too and draw the heat." 

"Oh great, living target duty." Vin muttered and glanced at Ezra who seemed a little too cool and uninterested. 

"Ah must go and wax mah skis, Mr. Larabee." Ezra grimaced as he hoisted the long cross-country skis over his shoulder. If he looked disappointed about being split off from the team, he didn't show it. 

"Do you want any help, son." Josiah towered over the smaller man, but was in no ways intimidating. 

"Mr. Sanchez, we may work for UNCLE, but that does not give us any family relationship whatsoever." The younger man bristled and swung around hastily barely missing with the long skis, Nathan and Buck who instinctively ducked. 

"I'll go with Ezra." Larabee glanced at his agents. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it with a snap. Any warnings would be like spitting in the wind with this group. Anyway they were there to find trouble, weren't they? 

  


The first day was spent learning how to use the bobsled, they had been given a crash course on an indoor artificial snow slope, but it had not prepared them for the speed, the skill and the sheer terror it took to guide a careening bobsled down an ice pipeline. 

They loved it. 

JD was the driver, due to his quick reflexes and because his legs fit in the small nose of the sled the best. Next came Vin, then Nathan, and Buck was the brakeman. Josiah prayed. A few times the bobsled crossed the finish line without the team and a few times with it. Josiah invoked heavenly powers. 

Even the Jamaican team had better track times. A kid on a flexible flyer named "Rosebud" finished the course in half the time they did. 

"Look, I know we aren't supposed to win, but this is embarrassing." Nathan had his coat collar turned up and was looking suspiciously at everyone who was looking suspiciously at him. 

"Good thing Chris is off watching Ez practice." JD said sorrowfully. 

"Probably shoot us."Vin added morosely. 

"Probably shoot the sled, too." Buck added. "And requisitions would..." 

"GET PISSED!" Everyone chimed in. For such a small office and team their budget always seemed to go way beyond anyone's expectations. If something didn't work, Larabee tended to shoot first and ask questions later. JD was constantly 'upgrading' equipment which often meant gutting two other items to get a great result with a third. Nathan and Josiah both had humongous bills from Book of the Month Club, Amazon, and various expensive and very esoteric magazine subscriptions, like Embalmers Monthly, Canadian Spy, and Good Housekeeping. And of course there was Ezra and his cleaning bills for suits frayed, damaged or bled on 'in the line of duty', which could also include damages from an impromptu food fight started by Buck and Vin. If it hadn't been for the keen business sense of Miss Recillos who ran the Saloon as their cover they would have reduced to shooting paper clips with rubber bands and hitchhiking to the Olympics. 

Josiah pulled a small brown bottle out from the loose folds of his parka. "This, gentlemen, will be our secret weapon." 

"Hey! I thought it was the front and rear mounted machine guns!" JD protested. "Not to speak of the stereo cd player for inspiration!" Unfortunately, the kind of inspirational music JD had in mind, was not that of his fellow teammates. 

"I got this from a fellow agent in Ötököt Canada. Nick makes the best bilberry schnapps..." Josiah closed his eyes in blissful memory. 

"Issat liquor?" Buck said enthusiastically and snatching the bottle out of the bigger agents hands opened it and stuck his nose closer. The Olympic code of clean living had been hard on the agent. 

The look on Buck Wilmington's face was a mixture of horror, disgust and an inability to breathe. "Uuuurrrgghhh..." he gasped. 

Vin took the bottle carefully out of Buck's lax hand. "Poison? Nerve Gas? Knock out drops?" 

"No." Josiah said amusedly. "Scented bear grease. We put this stuff on the sled's runners and she'll go like lightning. Nick swears by the stuff. It is also a fairly good hair tonic, too." He ran a hand over his graying, but thick thatch of hair. 

"Cool." JD said admiringly. 

"Efficient." Vin said, "We ain't telling Chris are we?" 

"Noooo. Just like we didn't tell him about the machine guns. Why burden Chris?" Nathan mentioned wisely. Nathan was always ready for a little interest in life, a welcome change from his years in UNCLE's basements doing research. 

"Guh huh." Buck agreed still breathing through his mouth and not his burning nose.   
  
  


It was surprising how easily he fell back into the pattern of skiing, stopping, shooting, and pursuing. No different than his work at UNCLE - just on skis. 

The rifle felt odd and heavy, especially after shooting UNCLE specials with their broad infrared night sites. Vin, a consummate gun slinger had helped him calibrate the rifle and adjust the straps to the right, comfortable fit. Ezra wasn't very fast on skis, but once he and his weapon got used to each other he was a dead shot. Speed would come later, but probably not this competition. 

His one previous foray into the international sports scene had been almost legitimate. Well, under a different name, a different nationality, and it had started as a simple bet. But a lot of his screw-ups started that way. Both UNCLE and Thrush had tried to recruit him after that fiasco. UNCLE seemed only the lesser of two evils at the time, but it was a move that he never regretted - well most of the time. UNCLE had been happy to take him, polish him at the training camp (he aced most areas, scorned the rest), and then spent time shuttling him from place to place doubting his motives, belittling his less than legal skills, and keeping him outside of their inner circles. That was until he got transferred three months ago to the Four Corners office. Larabee and his crew were just as weird and outside the loop as he was, yet as a team they were something else. Even Ezra was beginning to feel he might have found a place - for a while at least. That was of course until Larabee mentioned Bob the Hat. He knew who ran Bob, Bob never had brains enough to do more than use it as a place to put his odd hats. He would be on the lookout for Royale, Guy Royale. 

One part of his brain noted the few skiers he passed easily. A black man, grinning broadly and slipping everywhere on poorly waxed skis. An oriental that would cross the finish line two hours behind the rest. This was the Olympics, if your country could afford to send you, you came. There was glory in just being here. For some, anyway. Another part of his brain was quietly chewing on the fact that he would run into Royale again. And how perverse of Guy to be connected with Thrush as he had become involved with UNCLE. They had both attended a prestigious boarding school in Switzerland. Both under assumed names. Both outcasts in a too wealthy, too privileged society. They were bond together by the fact of being outcasts, but that made them loathe each other more. They competed on levels unknown, fortunately, to those in charge. Who ran the best poker game? Who could steal test papers from under a teacher's nose? Who could liberate a police car and drive it the farthest? Ezra liked to think he was ahead of Royale in the 'game', when a timely or untimely intervention of his mother's latest marriage removed him to less potential crimes. At the rate he and Guy had been going, either the law or the local Mafia were ready to step in and put an end to their youthful exuberance. 

He had run into the man once again, only this time as an adult, not a callow youth. The old animosity flared immediately. The fact that Ezra had bested him a little deal he'd been working on at the time did nothing to make the two men's relationship any better. His job was to get Royale's attention. To provoke him into an attack. Not that he would need provocation. Ezra being alive and in the immediate vicinity would be enough reason. His own sense of self-preservation was telling him to run, to hide, to camouflage himself. Sneak up on the man and get in the first blow. 

He wouldn't run. He'd made that mistake with Larabee just once. The man had given him a second chance, accepted the lame excuse he'd made. No, he would do his job, he'd stick the course. He slowed his pace marginally as he neared the standing target area. He'd have to slow his heartbeat in order to shoot straight. His peripheral vision noted Larabee uncomfortable in his brightly colored Olympic jacket. The man looked almost vulnerable out of his usual black color. There was nothing vulnerable however in the sharp gaze and the relaxed, but ready stance of a man of action. 

"Don't miss." He heard the terse reminder in his earplug. Really the man could put a person off his aim with that slow menacing drawl. Ezra took a breath, let it out slowly and aimed carefully. With that ritual over, he proceeded with blinding speed to hit all five targets. As he slipped the rifle back over his shoulder and grabbed his ski poles, he sent Larabee a cocky two-fingered salute. 

It was noticed by an older man also watching the skiers do their rounds. "Fur Hat Bob to base. I've found one." He spoke almost casually into his fur hat. He noticed Larabee watching as the man he'd spotted skied out of sight. "And his keeper." He paused listening. "Yes I got pictures. I'll bring them to you tonight. Which one do you want me to follow?" He nodded again to himself. "Right boss. I'll see what I can do." 

Chris Larabee watched as Standish did another five kilometers and came in for the prone position shoot. His shooting was faultless, skiing slow. Certainly too slow for Olympic standard. But his work paid off. The watcher had tipped his hand by talking into his fur hat and now the watcher was being watched. 

"Bait taken boys." Larabee spoke into his lighter as he lit a long thin black cheroot. 

  
  


The three men led by a man with a ten gallon fur hat slipped easily into the garage housing the bobsled. It gleamed in the dim lighting, the candy gloss finish almost alive and flickering. 

They set to work, silently and efficiently. Bolts were loosened and small adjustments were made that would lead to large disasters. 

"Smile!" Said a deep voice and it wasn't a cheerful rejoinder, but one of menace. It was accompanied by a flash of light. 

"Ah one of them moved." JD complained as he inspected the digital picture from his camera. "That one." He pointed helpfully to a scrawny individual. 

Buck threw a punch at him in the stomach and watched as he crumpled to the floor. "Now, he ain't moving." He placed a proprietary foot on his catch and posed for JD and the camera. 

"We wasn't doing anything..." Fur Hat Bob began. 

"Oh yeah?" Nathan said menacingly and pointed to the pile of bolts on the floor. 

"Olympic souvenirs." Bob snarled. 

"Thou shalt not covet." Josiah intoned in his deep menacing voice. He stood carefully back lighted to give his considerable bulk an even more menacing demeanor."Nor collect souvenirs from thy neighbors." 

"They cut the brake line, loosened the runner bolts and oh damn..."Vin ran a proprietary hand over the sled. "They scratched the paint job." 

That was the signal for the men from UNCLE to take special exception to their uninvited guests. A short but bloody melee enthused in which the bad guys took a beating while JD eagerly took snaps. 

"That's enough." Larabee said from his comfortable perch on a chair by the door. "I don't think these boys will be bothering us or the neighbors for some time to come." His smile was withering. "That should take care of any trouble." 

Yet, it was the wee hours of the morning when only the time-lagged and the enthusiastic exercisers were up and running about, that a stealthy figure made their way into the garage. A few bolts were loosened. The saboteur seemed to think for a moment and then completely removed two, putting them carefully away in a pocket. The wraith disappeared as easily at it had appeared.   


Larabee had given reluctant permission for the four men to carry out their one and only official run on the bobsled. His crew tended to be disaster magnets, but this was something even he didn't want to miss. 

The start was even credible with everyone in the sled and elbows tucked in. They took the first turn with reckless abandon and then the second sideways only clinging to the track through centrifugal force. Then they headed for the 'big one' and terrifying steep death trap. 

"Wooooooeeeee" They all screamed like on a giant personal roller coaster. 

The bobsled took the turn gracefully and continued going straight despite the track curving. The sled shot over the lip and continued swiftly scattering people before the runaway.   
"NO BRAKES!" Buck screamed, the words whipped from his mouth and were a small reassurance to the near fatalities behind him. A large wire fence loomed up, Vin triggered the front machine guns neatly shredding the fence just before they sailed past. The sled began to marginally slow down from a killing speed to one of maim and cripple. They had stumbled into the reindeer compound of the Finnish team. A small herd of beasts inhabiting the compound began dashing around uneasily and three finally settled into running in front of the bobsled, which was steadily gaining on them. 

"Do something!"Nathan yelled in JD's ear. JD thumbed the red toggle and the dulcet, annoying tones of Britney Spears blasted out of the sled's speakers. The reindeer split away like magic from in front of the runaway bobsled allowing JD to steer into a wide curve slowing them down to a bone-jarring but intact stop. 

The four men entangled themselves from the sled which was smoking slightly from the runners and the machine gun ports. The acrid stench of scorched bear grease and the voice of Britney was just a little too much for Buck and he threw up. 

"Geez Buck." JD whined looking a little green himself. 

"Someone's gotta look terrible when Chris comes, otherwise he'll punch someone out." Buck tried to explain. 

"Yeah like you." Vin said breathing wisely through his mouth. He eyed the reindeer which were still galloping in nervous circles. The Finns were going to pissed. 

The three men watching from the sidelines were relieved. Josiah raised his eyes heavenward said a few holy words. Larabee counteracted them with a few unholy words and Standish's eye caught that of an all too familiar face in the goggling crowd. The man grinned wolfishly and cocked his finger as in a gun and pointed it at Ezra. 

  
  


Despite the ripping up of the reindeer compound, a popular attraction, the Finns seemed only too happy to have the seven men join them for the promised dinner They were treated to a blistering hot sauna which most of them were pleased to enjoy. Buck wilted early, somehow disappointed that the rumors of co-ed saunas were mostly myth. He flirted easily with one young woman only to find that her husband Timo was not the understanding type. Many preconceived notions about the Finns and Scandinavians were dispelled that evening. 

There was a lot of sighing and regrets over the lack of anything stronger than home beer or fruit juice though JD got looped on a strong glass of buttermilk. The food was good, a hearty stew served with plenty of mashed potatoes. 

"Perrrrkele! Kuka on jouksunut nuo poroja? Tämä liha on aivan sitkeä." One dark small fellow who was expected to win a gold in ski jumping said in Finnish. 

"What did the gentleman say?" Josiah asked. 

"Ah Kari is mad, he says someone ran the reindeers before killing them. Those Laplanders are too fussy." 

"Reindeer?" Vin said looking at his mouthful of meat. 

"You are eating one of Santa's reindeer Mister Tanner. Tasty isn't he?" Ezra said slyly. UNCLE's priorities had been fulfilled, the rest of the team had their fun with the bobsled, though Vin and JD had sworn they had replaced all the bolts carefully. It would be like Royale to do something petty before striking at him. But it was Standish's problem, not UNCLE's. 

  


"Since we have taken care of the miscreants, I will not be needing any protection." Ezra said reasonably as he kicked his feet into the ski bindings. "However, if anyone would like to make a little wager on the outcome of the race. I will be happy to take bets." He smiled and spat into his goggles. 

"Oh we already have a few bets down." Buck said and slapped the agent on the shoulder. 

"Josiah says you will finish within the top 30..." JD said helpfully. 

"Josiah also believes in divine intervention." Nathan said, "I figure you about 50th." 

"Mr. Jackson, there is only a field of 65..." Ezra said raising an eyebrow. "Vin?" 

"Well Ez...we'll just see." The Texan drawled. His eyes met that of Larabee who gave a slight nod. 

"We'll be here at the range watching you shoot." Josiah said, "Good luck son." 

The six men watched as their seventh prepared for the grueling 20 kilometer race. Because Ezra was a relatively slow skier, but a superb marksman, the longer race with four chances on the shooting range was his best bet. 

"Whaddya think Chris?" Vin said watching as the man skied towards the starting gate. 

"I think we'd better keep an eye on him. Your sled accident was too easy." 

"I know. Did JD get the bug into his ski pole?" The southerner had refused a wire, stating that there was no need as he was just out for a 'Sunday ski'. 

"Yep. Wanted to put a camera in the ski goggles, but I figgered Ez would spot that." 

"Yeah. Okay boys, lets mount up! Josiah will keep an eye on the stadium, make sure no one shoots Ezra by mistake. Buck, you have the first two and half klicks, Nathan the second. Vin, you'll have the hill. I'll take the back loop. JD will keep an eye on the television coverage, there are at least 15 cameras out there - holler if you see anything. The rest of us will keep an eye out on those few spots the TV cameras haven't covered. 

Vin caught Chris's arm as the men made their way to put on skis for the snowy stakeout. 

"Does Ezra know?" 

"He knows." Larabee said tightly. "And if he doesn't start learning to trust us..." His tone was more regretful than threatening. 

"It hasn't been easy for him." Vin said picking up his poles, one of which was a lightweight air powered dart gun. The other was a fiberglass ski pole. "We just have to let him know we are here for him, no matter what." 

"Then let's get going." The six men set off like a phalanx of old time gunslingers, peeling off with a salute as they set off to protect their seventh somewhat reluctant agent. 

  
  


There was something immensely satisfying about cross-country skiing. The steady pace, the crisp edge of the skis biting into the snow on the turns, the relaxed tuck on the down hills and the traditional herringbone steps going up the slopes. It was essentially a loner's sport. Something that Ezra always thought suited him to a T. The pack had thinned out considerably with the Russians, Latvians, and one surprise Argentinean leading. He got an occasional cheer from the crowd. They considered him a home boy, though he was none of the sort. He was an outsider. A lone wolf without the protection of his pack. 

Funny how vulnerable he felt without Larabee and the rest watching him. They were probably in the stands swilling beer and making bets on the outcome. He grinned wryly to himself. His worse case scenario was that he wouldn't live to cross the finish line at all, not if Royale had his way. At least he wasn't visibly unarmed, though it was certainly against the Olympic code to shoot someone with a sporting rifle. Royale wouldn't quibble. 

He'd thought of the potential places on the 10 km loop that he could possibly be ambushed. He wondered idly if Guy would show up himself or did he have someone else besides Fur Hat Bob on his payroll. His mind veered away from those problems as he neared the first of the target areas. He was about 30th a very credible standing. Ooo's and aaaahh's were shouted from the crowd as shots were successful or missed. He flattened all of his targets in very good time leaving behind a favored Canadian who had to do two penalty laps. Only 15 more kilometers... 

"He aced them. Twenty-eighth place." JD announced jubilantly over their radios. 

He was just passed by a lanky Finn who did not acknowledge a previous acquaintance, but was bent on his skiing. Ezra wished he could put his whole heart into this as well, but he didn't feel like ending up dead. Someone moving through the trees caught his eye and as his ski slipped slightly he felt something tug at his side. Momentum still drove him forwards until he realized that he'd been shot. How crude of Royale, he knew Ezra hated stains on his clothes. One ski seemed to be determined to slide in one direction while the other in another. The rifle was somehow in his hands, a reflex action. He shed the skis and stumbled into the cover of the trees instinctively going to ground taking himself out of the open. 

JD, who had been watching some dozen tv monitors and had been keeping an eye on Ezra's tracer, noticed the deviation. 

"Ez is off the trail...I think he's down." He reported tersely noticing that the blip was moving very slowly and erratically. "Chris, he's closest to you. Area 7D - moving east." JD was young and enthusiastic, but a consummate professional. 

"Got it." Larabee said and set his skis into a reckless dive through a crowd of tourists. 

"Right behind ya cowboy." Vin reported. 

He'd been shot. The burning sensation seemed to spreading all down his right side and he was leaving bright red splashes in the snow...tracks a baby could follow. He shook his head to remove the gray fog that seemed to be settling in. The rifle seemed incredibly heavy and it seemed to pull him down. It would be so nice to lie down in the cold snow, maybe it would stop the fire that was eating at him. He was already down on one knee when he heard the shuush of someone skiing. He was near a ski track, of course there were skiers about. One's with silencers on their guns. The sound faded and then began to get stronger. He hefted the rifle up as a figure came recklessly through the brush, following his red blood. 

"Ezra!" 

He blinked. Why wasn't Larabee in the stadium? The rifle was pulled carefully out of his hands and Chris was leaning over him. Leaning? When had he become flat on his back? The snow didn't seem to doing a good job of soothing the fire. 

"Easy Ez."Larabee was wadding up his shirt and pressing it rather annoying against his side. He was unable to stifle the groan of pain. "What happened?" 

"Sniper..." His head seemed to clear marginally. 

"You knew there a few more bad men lurking in the bushes. That's why we are out here guarding your ass." 

"I merely assumed that the attack was one of a - personal nature." Standish tried not to grimace as Larabee hastily, but firmly tied his windbreaker around the bleeding wound. 

Larabee's face was uncomfortably close to his- the eyes were a very cold color, colder than the blood spattered snow Standish was lying on. 

"You'll tell me everything that may be pertinent or not, Standish. Even if it is your own mother shooting at you." Larabee almost lost his lunch when he saw his agent's flippant mask slip and a very bleak look cross his face. 

The mask was hard to get back on...it was the gunshot wound in his side, the cold air, the very close presence of his boss literally breathing down his neck.   
"Hell Ez!" Chris snarled. "You don't think...?" His voice trailed off. 

"N-n-no. Mah mother will work for whoever pays well, but..." Standish unconsciously bit his lip, an annoying childhood habit he'd thought he'd broken himself of. 

One couldn't pick one's parents and only Larabee and a few superiors in UNCLE's ranks knew that Standish's mother was a lady of many shady talents and skills - all for hire. Her teachings made Standish the good agent he was, but some were just waiting for him to follow in her footsteps. Larabee hauled Standish up to his feet and steadied the wavering man.   
"What makes you think it wasn't her?" He asked casually as he watched the man's eyes roll and flutter. 

"I don't think- she - would- have - m-m-misssssed." Larabee's ready shoulder caught the man as he flopped forwards bonelessly. 

The near faint had been a good excuse to cover his own confusion. Would his own mother shoot him, shoot to kill? It was a question he didn't want to think about. Would Larabee force him to face it, to give an answer? He would just play dead for a few seconds more and then insist on walking. He wasn't that badly hurt...besides which hanging head down over Chris Larabee's shoulder was less than dignified. He would just ... 

  


"Thrush does not tolerate failure!" Guy Royale snarled. 

"In mah experience, " Maude Standish said leisurely drawing on her cigarette. "Thrush doesn't tolerate anything, not even themselves." 

"You were hired to dispose of the UNCLE agents!" The man was working himself into a frothing fit. The more he frothed the more relaxed the woman. 

"And Ah did just that Guy darling." she casually reached into her purse and pulled out a small compact inspecting her left eyebrow critically. "They are quite out of the picture I assure you." The perfect eyebrow arched itself like a contented cat. 

"They should be dead!" 

"Ah am not a common assassin for hire, Mistah Royale. Ah fulfilled mah part of the deal." She looked at her suggestively open purse. "Ah believe a certain emerald necklace was the price..." 

"Bitch! If you think I'm going to pay you...and I will kill them myself!" Before his hand could dip to the gun in his shoulder holster Maude raised the compact up and pressed the top lightly. 

Royale looked cross-eyed at the small dart sprouting between his eyes. He looked too comical for words. Maude Standish's look showed no amusement, only grimness. His legs gave out as the powerful poison spread through his system, killing him. 

"No one cheats Maude Standish." She said poking him with a color-coordinated shoe. "And" She finished in a low hiss watching his eyes begin to film over in death.. "No one threatens my son." 

She inspected her bland face in the mirror again. "No one." she whispered. "Except for me, of course." 

  


"There you are..." An unfamiliar bright feminine voice intruded on his thoughts. At least he wasn't slung over Larabee's shoulder. Matter of fact he seemed to be lying down on a bed, a hospital bed. 

"Come on Mr. Standish, I know you are awake. Please open your eyes." 

Gawd, do they teach nurses to speak like that? Saccharine Sentiments 101? Why do they always sound so young and sweet and then do horrible things to you? Like wake you up, put tubes in places where tubes have no business...He cracked open an eye to view his tormentor. Vin's face hove into view. Standish frowned, since when did Vin have a feminine voice? Then he noticed that Vin's lips weren't moving and that the annoying nurse noises were on the other side of the bed. 

"That's good! You must be feeling much better!" The nurse patted him all too familiarly on the arm. The one nearest Vin seemed to be trussed up to his aching ribcage. 

"Makes ya wanna brush your teeth don't it?" Vin grinned reading his mind. 

"Uh..gga..ftt.." His mouth was dry as a pair of wool socks on a radiator. 

Vin deftly set a straw near his lips and Ezra sucked on the liquid, he swore he could hear it splash into his empty belly. 

"How...?" 

"Couple of days. Bullet nicked your liver you was bleeding inside like a leaky faucet." Vin said helpfully. "We were worried." 

"Uh huh..."Standish's eyes did a quick flit around the hospital room. Scattered pizza boxes and Olympic sweaters were draped over chairs and the end of his bed. 

"We didn't leave you alone." Vin's tone was non-committal. 

"There's a risk?" Ezra moved uneasily in the bed bringing a stab of pain to his mid-section. 

"Nah. We found a fellow named Royale, or what was left of him in a burnt out car. He'd been shot in the head with a Thrush sniper rifle. Guess they didn't like him screwing up." 

Standish relaxed letting the pillows take his weight again. The pain in his side eased to that of a few hamsters gnawing at him. 

Vin's communicator pen warbled. "Tanner. Yeah, he's awake. Sure why not?" He closed it with a snap. 

"They are on their way. It was the closing ceremonies, Travis had all of us out there looking sharp." 

"You could have gone. I'm sure they wanted you." His eyes felt heavy and the hamsters were only nibbling now. 

"We didn't leave you alone." Vin repeated and settled into the chair as the agent drifted off to sleep. 

When Standish opened his eyes again, night had fallen. The room had been cleaned and there was no sign of his fellow agents. The hamsters had also had left him alone and he had only a dull ache to remind him of his injury. He eyed the IV critically and wondered if he should affect an escape now, or wait till daylight. 

The door to the hall opened letting in a shaft of light. "It's me Ez." Larabee announced as the bed bound agent reached for a gun that wasn't there. He had two mugs of coffee in his hands.   
"Thought you might be waking up about now. Brought you some coffee." 

"Thank you Mr. Larabee." 

Larabee waited patiently while Standish pulled himself up into a better sitting position and held out his good hand for the cup. He bent his nose to drink in the heady aroma. "This smells good." 

"Found a Starbucks about half a block away. Better than anything the hospital would dish out. Been awake long?" He looked concerned, but as the only light was from the small bedside lamp Ezra couldn't be sure. 

"Just a few moments." His first cautious sip informed of the presence of milk and one sugar, just the way he liked it. 

"The boys send their greetings." Larabee raised his Styrofoam mug in salute. 

Ezra looked down at the fine porcelain mug in his hand. It was a deep royal blue and had the Salt Lake Olympic Logo tastefully printed on the side. A thin gold rim ran around the lip and down the handle. 

"Is Starbucks giving out mugs?" He asked taking a deep swallow of the brew. 

"Nope. That's a gift from all of us. Figgered you might want to have your own mug. You are part of our team you know." 

"Well, so it seems." Ezra settled more comfortably back in the pillow and admired the gold trim on the mug. It was tasteful. Something he appreciated. Something his colleagues knew he appreciated. 

The two men drank their coffee in silent accord. 

"Josiah and Nathan will come and pick you up in the morning. You are being released then." Larabee crushed his empty cup in his hand and tossed it deftly into the corner wastepaper basket. 

"I don't need..." Ezra began. 

"You want me to send JD and Buck?" Larabee twitched an eyebrow at him and smiled wolfishly. 

"No. No, Josiah and Nathan are fine. Ah'm sure you will be wanting the comfort of your own bed..." Ezra smiled showing his gold tooth. He hid the smile in his cup of coffee finishing off all but a small amount. He swirled the cup absentmindedly in his hand. 

"Yeah. Just wanted you to know we were here for ya." Larabee stood up and stretched his long frame making popping noises. 

Ezra drained the cup to hide his confusion and a certain unknown feeling of satisfaction, or pleasure or was he just happy? 

"Mr. Larabee what is in the bottom of my cup?" He looked at his boss after staring in the mug. 

Larabee grinned."Well Ez, if it was real, it would be a gold medal. Good night."   
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
